


Red on Red

by Neocolai



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: (even when he’s evil), Bats don't do communication, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Christmas theme fic, Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Dick Grayson Tries to Be a Good Older Sibling, Everyone teams up for Tim!feels, Gen, Hood vs Hood, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Red Hood vs Red Robin, Tim Drake Gets a Hug, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Whump, and that's why nobody gets along, but they all look after each other, canonical Jason cusses but not in my fics, with great sarcasm and pointy objects, with the emotional capacity of a cactus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:20:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27704731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neocolai/pseuds/Neocolai
Summary: The Red Hood prefers smash therapy. Jason Todd doesn’t approve. You can’t just jump across the multiverse and punch out other people’s Robins.For the wonderful Envysparkler, who inspires me with the best stories starring Jason and Tim as reluctant brothers.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 213





	1. Confidence Lost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [envysparkler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/envysparkler/gifts).



> I glean my information from a handful of comics, cartoons, wikipedia, and other fanfiction. Some aspects may not be canonically accurate (ex. I get mixed vibes about whether Kon is supposed to be alive or not), but that's what the free web is for. 
> 
> On that note *passes around disclaimer tag* Neocolai is not making a profit off this fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra warnings for blood and injuries and people beating up on teenagers. Just saying, Hood isn't a nice person.

It was a bad night. Rain pooled in overfilled gutters, slicking the rooftops and muting the city in pelting static. There was just enough wind to drive the rain into needles. Traffic piled up for miles; the highway was an unmoving stream of glaring headlights and blaring horns, and another EMT car wailed to the south end. Even the criminals weren’t out tonight. Neither was Batman, or anyone sane enough to patrol in the middle of Noah’s flood.

For the record, it wasn’t pouring rain two hours ago. (Eve of a rooftop, shelter, light patter overhead, warm. He just shut his eyes for a second.) By the time Tim jerked awake, shaking under a sudden leak in the tiles above him, the misting shower had turned into a roar and his phone was cluttered with worried texts and _‘call me nows_.’ Oops. 

Com interference in the storm, plus an impromptu nap. (He should really start taking sleep seriously. Although caffeine pills were a better idea.) It was the phone call from Bruce that finally jolted him away. They probably thought he’d drowned in an open manhole or something. Tim typed out a quick response to satisfy Bruce and stowed the phone, retrieving his staff from where it had rolled into the gutter. (Juvenile. Damian was ten and he knew better than to lose his weapon.)

At least there were no witnesses to tonight's flop. Tim could slip inside the cave, mangle an excuse, ditch the soggy uniform, and still catch two hours before it was time to get ready for work. (Skip that; he’d already lost a whole evening sleeping. Hot shower and coffee and he’d finish that case Jason was nagging him about. He was feeling more awake already.)

Nobody sane should’ve been out tonight, and Tim staggered momentarily when the streetlight flashed on red chrome. Either Jason personally wanted to make sure his petty project was finished, or ... Tim was really in trouble.

“Bruce sent you to fetch me?” Tim sighed. He didn't realize he was out for that long. “I already texted him. You didn’t have to bother.”

If Nightwing and Robin were out searching, he’d never get to hear the end of it. Bye-bye freedom, hello curfews and mandatory nap hours. Honestly, he was sixteen and managing a company. He could judge his own limitations. Tonight was an exception; he wouldn’t botch it again.

“Fine,” Tim grumbled, slogging by a silent Red Hood (and wasn’t that just an indicator of how badly he’d messed up. Jason never lacked a snide criticism). “Show me up in front of B. You don’t have to use me as an excuse to drop by the manor on occasion.”

“You just can’t shut up, can you?” 

Okay, that was a little rude. Tim cast Jason a quick scowl. He really wasn’t up to verbal sparring tonight. “You don't have to escort me to the cave. I’m fine getting back on my own.”

There was a flash of tension in leather-clad shoulders. (Was the jacket new or was the lighting really that bad?) “Like I’d be caught dead in there.”

Okay, one — the death jokes were really old, and there was way too much venom in that jest to make it funny. Two, Tim was cold and wet and he wasn’t dealing with this tonight. He was perfectly capable of walking home without Bruce calling in backup. Flipping Jason one for the effort, he kept walking.

The bruising grip on his shoulder was the first indicator that tonight was about to get a whole lot worse. Tim realized belatedly that he might have underestimated the Red Hood’s truce as Jason whipped him around, fist drawn back. There was no rough-housing jest as leather swarmed Tim's vision.

“Beating the sass out of you never gets old, Replacement.”

* * *

Red Robin was so _easy_. It didn’t matter which universe Hood dropped into, the pattern was predictable. The kid put up a scrap, danced around a little, maybe threw a few punches, but it always ended the same. He was small and light, and he didn’t have the vivacity to keep up. Sometimes he went down silently, biting his lip until blood ran down his chin. Sometimes he cried, big fat tears that he tried to hide behind the mask. Always the same litany of questions followed: _Why are you doing this? What do you want? What did I ever do to you?_

This probably marked the first time he walked straight into Hood’s punch, though. There was barely a flicker of bewilderment before knuckles met bone. Cartilage crunched and blood vessels burst in the eye as the Replacement staggered to one knee, staff rolling from his hand. He clutched at his splintered cheek and swayed, gasping wetly around a mouthful of blood. 

Unbelievable. 

_This_ was supposed to be Gotham's Robin? If Hood had realized the kid would just take it, he might've pulled his punch. Any brat on the street would've known to duck. Either the Replacement was stupid enough to trust his worst enemy, or this universe’s version of Jason Todd was a wuss. (There were, apparently, lamer versions than the baker in Crime Alley.) He ought to be able to stand more than a little love tap, though. 

"Get up, Replacement," Hood snapped. "I thought the Bat trained you to fight the real bad guys."

"What the heck is wrong with you?" the Replacement groaned, stumbling back far enough to fumble for his staff. He straightened warily, blinking past what was probably some superb double-vision, and settled into a beleaguered stance. Good; it was going to be one of _those_ fights. Hood wasn’t imperiling his existence with each multiverse jump just to replay an episode of One-Punch Man. 

"If you have to ask, you're hanging out with the wrong friends," Hood said. He ambled up the slanted roof and the Replacement retreated step for step. He was walking up an incline, however, and those boots could only provide so much friction against wet tiles. "Watch your step, Starling. Hate to see you clip your wings early."

Even behind the white lenses, he could feel the Replacement assess; ponder; jump to conclusions. "You're not the Red Hood."

"Really?" Tilting his head, Hood tapped a finger against his chin. "Is it because I gave up the fight? Started playing nice? Warmed up to Batsy?"

The Replacement twitched. Ah, so it _was_ one of those universes. 

"Maybe I'm an impostor in a helmet," Hood suggested. "A botched clone. A new punchline in the Joker cycle."

Another grimace was veiled under a paltry attempt to staunch the bloody nose. The kid was starting to shiver, shock blending with caffeine jitters and a cold shower. Hood prowled closer, stealing two more inches of neutral ground. "Do I need to prove myself to you, Replacement? Or did you really think I didn't notice the lack of backup?"

There was a full-bodied flinch this time, but Hood didn't need confirmation. Empty rooftops for miles around. Desperate grip on the bo staff. Wobbling stance that still pleaded, _friendly ground_ . There wouldn’t be any reinforcements — not while Jason Todd could retract from the cozy family dynamics. He was part of the joint around here. Bruce's kiddo. Big Brother Hood. Backup to the backup in case something went wrong. The Red Hood _couldn’t_ be evil because that would shiver down every wall of trust the kid had stacked around himself like sand bricks on a low dock. 

"Who _could_ believe that good ol' Jay turned out to be a bad egg after all," Hood taunted softly. He reached slowly for the latches of his helmet, giving the Replacement the full, dramatic reveal. Maybe he was a little sharper around the edges in his universe. There was more white bleaching into his hair every time he passed a mirror, and his eyes were a permanent shade of sharp green. It was hard to tell in the dark, though, and the Replacement was definitely stuttering each breath. 

"You're really going to make me prove it, aren't you, Timmy?" Hood set down the helmet and sidestepped, satisfied when the Replacement braced his staff between them. Decent reflexes, at least; Batman didn't waste his training this time. "Let's start with the preliminaries.”

Nothing circumstantial — too many factors could shift in a single timeline. The Replacement’s parents could still be alive, or he could've been orphaned for years. Maybe Bruce never adopted him. Maybe the fourth brat never showed up. There were some constants in every universe, however, and one of those predictable patterns was Tim. No matter the multiverse, or the environment, the third son of Batman was an irreversible tide of uncertainty. 

"I know you lie awake in your room wondering if this is the last time you fumbled a case," Hood taunted, claiming the next roof tile. "I know you check your bike every night before patrol, just in case someone split the wires. I know you're waiting for the moment when you step into the manor and find the place empty for the summer."

"This isn't funny," the Replacement hissed, skittering to find unscathed ground. 

"No?" Hood stole two tiles and cornered the kid at the edge of the roof. "Then call B. Tell him you're scared of the Big Bad Hood. I'm sure he'll understand. After all, family always comes first."

And, bingo. The quick, desperate flash of fear implying that family never included _him_ . Hood seized his moment, reaching out to cuff the Replacement's collar. Too slow: the kid snatched his own opportunity and snapped a kick to Hood's thigh, twisting sharply to the right and lunging off the rooftop with the _snap-hiss_ of a grappling gun. 

Soggy teenager throwing himself into empty space with a concussion and a severe case of emotional turbulence. Hood winced when the clatter of a poorly aimed line accompanied a dull thud and a muffled cry. Yep, that probably hurt more than the first punch. Idiot kid always had to mess up everything.

Sighing, Hood tethered his own line and followed the Replacement's plunge, taking his time releasing the line. Puddled rain mixed with street grime, staining his boots like grime in a rusty crate. Or old blood.

“Going somewhere?” Hood posed, taking an exaggerated step out of the puddle and shaking water from his boots. 

The Replacement hobbled back against the wall, leaning heavily on one leg. There was only tentative weight on the right heel, the arch braced at an angle. He took the brunt of the fall on one foot, then. Probably sprained his knee, too. There would be no merry chase through the alleys tonight, but Hood could make do with a shorter episode. He was drenched through as it is.

“End of the line, Replacement,” he goaded, spreading his hands out. “Nowhere left to run. Now why don’t you put down the stick and let Uncle Jay finish the job.”

“You really aren’t the Red Hood,” the Replacement snorted. His hand whipped out and Hood ducked the first batarang, catching the second and flicking it back at the kid’s shoulder. The staff clattered as the Replacement dropped into a clumsy roll, nearly detonated by his own arsenal.

Explosive batarang to the face. Someone was playing nasty.

“Wanna take that bet?” Hood challenged, plucking up the fallen staff. A double handful of missiles pelleted the wall behind him, filling his vision with concrete chips and smoke. Puddles sloshed under desperate flight.

“Smoke pellets in a cloudburst?” Hood called after him. “Who trained you?”

The chemical screen was already dissipating, but Hood didn’t need his sight to follow the clumsy sloshes ahead. The kid had lost his grappler, taken out one leg, and ditched his staff. This was _way_ too easy.

“Run, run, as fast as you can....” Hood singsonged, kicking at the puddles as he approached. A soft glow betrayed the Replacement’s position: a phone screen glaring behind a dumpster. Kid had managed to corner himself against a brick wall.

Hood’s phone started pinging. 

Huh. What were the odds that he picked the same model as his counterpart in this universe? There was a higher chance of Dick and Harley producing identical triplets. 

Smirking, Hood swiped the screen.

The audio immediately swamped with interference; probably due to the shared line. He could still hear the tremulous, “Jason?” followed by shaky breaths.

“Yeah, Kiddo?” Hood said gently. Who knew what he called the brat in this universe. Maybe Timmers or Timmy or even Tiny Tim. Abstract was safer than guesswork.

There was a hesitant puff of relief. “Jason, I... sorry to bother you, but … I need... I need backup.”

Trust without confidence. Good to know this Jason wasn’t a total loser for nestlings.

“Okay, where are you?” Hood crooned. He edged forward, planting his feet deliberately in wet, sucking patches of muck. There was a gasp and a light shuffle on the audio, while the shadow of Red Robin curled further behind the dumpster.

“Off Vince avenue... I think....” the Replacement whispered. “You don’t have to ... I mean... is everyone there with you?”

He probably meant, ‘ _are you safe at home and not hounding me_ ,’ but Hood didn’t care for the implications. _Everyone_ could include the Bats, the Titans, the League... any combination could mean a host of problems. He didn’t pack for Supers. Maybe it was time to wrap up the night’s project.

“Just me,” Hood said. He stepped around the corner and lowered the phone, letting the screenlight play on the kid’s face. Hope fled before despair and the Replacement scrambled to stand, latching onto another batarang,

“Jay — Why are you doing this?” he choked, bravado a futile front against the enemy. 

“I’ve been running you down for the last hour and _now_ you ask why,” Hood deadpanned. “Wrong question, Replacement. Why _not?”_

“You told Batman you didn’t want to fight anymore,” the Replacement accused, his voice wrought like a child walking in on a hacked Christmas scene, shredded wrapping strewn around limp bodies and a red tree. “Why now? What did I ever do to you?”

“Now those are the right questions,” Hood praised. Finally, they were back on script. Too bad he was out of time. “Let’s just say this is long overdue.” He raised the staff over his head, clacking his tongue when the Replacement skittered away like a dang eel, hugging the wall. 

“This isn’t you, Jason,” the kid insisted. It might sound more convincing if he wasn’t trying so hard to reassure himself. “It’s Crane, isn’t it? We can call Batman; he’ll fix you.”

Oh, that was the wrong thing to say.

“I mean — he’ll fix _this!_ ” the Replacement pleaded, hurling himself to the side as the staff whistled past his stomach. “There’s nothing wrong — I didn’t mean — Jason, just _stop!”_

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with _me_ , Replacement,” Hood snarled, whirling the staff in an arc. He snapped it back, feinting a strike, and planted a foot in the kid’s stomach as he tried to shimmy for the open alley. The staff cracked down on narrow shoulders and the Replacement fell with a cry, tripping up over his own cape. 

“There’s nothing wrong that _he_ didn’t create!” Hood emphasized, rage burning into his stomach as he punctuated each word with another kick. Another snap to the nose and the Replacement toppled, whimpering as he cupped his bloody face. Finally. 

“Besides,” Hood considered, hefting the staff with some contemplation, “If you really thought the Bat would save you, you would’ve called him first.”

He smiled thinly and raised the staff over his head.

The screams never got old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Jason's tech support rant is rudely interrupted by an SOS call


	2. Cry Traitor

_‘Suing tech support,’_ Jason typed sullenly, scrunching his nose when the text idled by a roving circle. Forty minutes for one stupid conversation. He might as well _call_ Dick.

_‘Not sharing :)_

It took him a moment to place the context. Really? That particular conversation was twelve minutes and thirty-two texts old. Was Dick just getting his replies? Jason rapped a coarser response, wondering how many profanities he could space out before the circus freak finally sent back a scandalized emoticon. _‘It’s my unbirthday. If I get there and the peppermint melts are gone somebody’s getting a bullet in the_ —’

Harsh buzzing under his fingers disrupted the expletive, and he nearly tossed his phone as Kesha’s _Timber_ blared in the near-silent apartment. What the frick, did the Replacement change his ringtone again?

“What?” Jason barked, swiping without a second thought. Oh, that kid was getting it now. (Unless Dick put him up to this in retaliation for Jason’s text hiatus. He’d chew Tim out for getting involved and _then_ kill his older brother.)

_“Jason?”_ Chattering teeth, pitched voice, rain drumming against hard plastic. 

Jason sat up, plugging one ear as the speaker buzzed. “Wait, you’re still out?” What kind of obsessive despot let the kid patrol in a thunderstorm? 

_“...Sorry to… need… backup….”_

“What the heck are you calling me for?” Because Red Robin wouldn’t. Ever. Not unless the entire Bat Clan was occupied and he was dying or possibly wandering through the manor with an empty coffee pot.

“... _Vince Ave…_ ” 

“You’re breaking up, little bird,” Jason said, switching the phone to his other hand as he fumbled with his jacket. “Give me landmarks. What happened?”

“... _Just say this is long overdue_ ….” a distant growl intoned.

Freezing with one boot yanked on, Jason hiked the phone’s volume to full-blast. “What’s going on over there, Tim?” he said carefully. He could almost place the voice. Freeze? Two Face? Not quite, but it was someone they’d run into before….

_“Jason, just stop!”_

_“... wrong with me, Replacement!”_

He tripped up, one hand on the door, flashbacks lancing in vivid color. _Replacement, ribs cracking under his fists, blood running down a sharp edge… Not anymore, never again, it’s buried in the past…._

The tinned voice trailed over the line with a sneered, _“... the Bat would save_ you….” 

Swiping to his messages, Jason sent out a rapid page to the team. Not that it would do any good. If the average sending time right now was twelve minutes to a text (and he’d already bombarded Dick with thirteen profanities), there wouldn’t be any backup for nearly three hours. Hopefully Oracle could get through to them faster and track the Replacement’s phone. If Tim had called Jason, however, he clearly didn’t expect help from another source. 

At least Jason had an address. 

Latching on his helmet, the Red Hood slipped out the window and grappled to the nearest roof, cursing the downpour that immediately soaked through his jacket. ETA to Vince avenue was ten minutes in this kind of weather.

He'd make it in six.

* * *

The kid was right where he belonged. Curled in a wet lump in a soiled alley, limp hands crooked beside a torn cowl, ribcage heaving with each uneven breath. The next idler unfortunate enough to be caught in this storm would probably link the battered visage to a member of the Wayne household, but that wasn’t Hood’s problem.

He flexed his hands agitatedly and tossed the staff aside. Eight years of playing this game, of choosing a hunt and making the kill, and the anger burned unabated. Perhaps there was some truth in Bruce’s rants about revenge. (Or perhaps this wasn’t quite enough. He did leave the kid breathing, after all.)

Shrugging, Hood plucked out a gun and leveled it at the Replacement’s head. Clean kill or slow? Maybe if he took out the kid’s ankles and moved up, that would satisfy the last green threads in his vision. If not, there were other universes, each with their own unwanted Robins. He had time.

The click of a gun’s safety _behind him_ told him otherwise.

“You must be the other me,” Hood huffed, tilting his firearm imperceptibly to the left. Headshot it was, then. He wasn’t losing his kill to the competition, paltry as it might be.

Other Red didn’t take the bait. His breathing was coarse but controlled — anxiety playing into the League’s training. He was too young to risk Hood’s odds, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t put a bullet in his brain if Hood pulled the trigger first.

Hood would very much like to live tonight, and he’d made the foolhardy choice of dropping his helmet for theatrics. Lunging for the opposite wall, he dodged the first round of bullets and aimed for the weak points in his alternate's armor. Hands, joints, neck. Kevlar couldn’t protect every inch of skin.

Dropping his gun with a curse, Red clutched his elbow as blood spurted between his fingers. Never take on a seasoned shooter in a gunfight, especially on slick terrain — 

Immediately Hood was reminded how dastardly he was on the streets, as Red took advantage of said grime and dropped into a messy slide, barreling into his legs. The gun flew against the wall and fists and feet swiped to pummel Hood’s exposed face. The upstart had skinnier arms and a lame wing, however, and it only took one twist to put him back in the muck where he belonged. 

Smoke pellets burst in Hood’s face and he hacked, nostrils seared and throat stinging. Red slithered out from beneath him, a switchblade whipping in his arching fist. Grabbing his wrist in both hands, Hood pressed down, twisting, and dropped to ram his shoulder into the bloodied elbow. Red howled, planting steel-toed boots into Hood’s abdomen while still clinging to the knife.

“What do you have to prove?” Hood snarled, shifting to wrap a leg around the upstart’s throat. “You think protecting the underminer will secure your place? There’s no future where the Bat won’t leave you. Sooner or later they’ll all turn away.”

The knife was in his possession, bearing down on a glass-coated eyepiece. How many stabs would it take to shatter that fragile covering?

“They’re not dead yet,” Red jibed, his voice curling with disdain. “And you ditched your helmet.”

Because that was somehow relevant, seeing as the upstart was about to have a startling change of view. “You could be more than their puppet,” Hood chided. “You could ruin the Court; the League, even. You would exchange it for children in capes?”

Gurgling, dropping one hand from the knife to bat at the leg wrapped around his throat, Red rasped out, “Least... I got... backup.”

Too late Hood honed in on the helmet itself. The com lines that the Replacement had neglected. A universe where quite possibly, the Red Hood wasn’t the unreachable prodigal. 

Pain blossomed in his shoulder and he cursed, fingers curling around a black batarang. Backup had indeed arrived. Red lunged upright with a snarl, burying the knife to the hilt in the thigh crushing his throat. Howling, Hood yanked away, staggering under the sudden assault of the Batman's fists, fumbling for the device he’d stolen off the first Replacement.

The fool who was certain they could save Batman from the past.

The first bloodied cape to decorate an abandoned cave.

The last child to wear the Robin uniform.

There was no backup in the universe to which Hood fled. No one left to remember. All had fallen to ash as the Red Hood symbol glared in a smoke-filled sky.

He wouldn’t be the last martyr, thwarted by the Batman of another world. He would retreat for now. Bide his time and lick his wounds, until the need for blood overwhelmed all survival instincts. Until his hands ached with the need to see the last flutters of life still under his fingers. Until every remnant of Batman’s legacy was dead, in every universe, and the last bullet in the chamber seemed like a welcome friend.

Perhaps then, he would find peace.

* * *

_(30 minutes earlier…)_

Rain painted the windows, spilling from the backed-up gutter in sheets and swamping the manor grounds. The power was riding on generators, and there was simply too much empty space to keep the entire manor running. Bruce called the night and shut down the computers, quelling Damian’s grumbles with a plaid comforter on the couch and a cup of cider from Alfred. They used to see these nights more often, when the old wiring system gave out at the first gust of wind and the generators were wasted on television. First Dick, and then Jason started to anticipate storms, stockpiling sweets and flannels and books in the sitting room, where the fire invited cozy shadows and Bruce would read until the thunder dulled to a rumble and heavy eyelids closed.

This was Damian’s first traditional thunderstorm. He sniffed derisively at the cider but sipped tentatively, stiffly curled into his father’s side as though he expected him to move the instant he twitched wrong. Taking a thoughtful swallow from his own mug, Bruce vowed to make time for more stay-home nights. Once Dick grew up those moments stretched too far between, neglected until the the opportunity was passed. The kids shouldn’t have to wait for sick days or holidays or thunderstorms to share a quiet evening together. Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t recall a single storm night spent with Tim.

Where was the boy tonight? _Home_ , Bruce hoped, though the association was a bitter weight in his chest. Things hadn’t settled right after his “death.” First there was the emancipation and the new apartment, and then the argument over Boomerang. Tim didn’t see fit to keep his family in the know-how these days. He stuck around for patrol and holiday entertainment, taking Jason’s place as the drifter. Shunning the doors that were always open; the room that still waited for his return.

Tim wouldn’t have wasted his time in this rain, Bruce rationalized as another clap of thunder shook the house. Damian flinched against him and stilled just as quickly, waiting for a chiding remark. Sighing, Bruce tucked the boy closer under his arm, brushing a hand across dark hair. This wasn’t the League. A child could afford to shy around nature's violent purge.

“Todd is not responding to his texts,” Damian grumbled, scowling at the kitchen where Dick’s chatter was accompanied by a coughing fit and the spray of crumbs. Good thing they were already well-stocked in baked goods. The typical holiday larceny was running Bludhaven’s police force ragged, and Dick looked like he was running on fumes. Tonight, at least, Officer Grayson could ignore his phone. Not even the crime lords would be out in this storm.

Bruce hoped that Tim was staying home.

Damian tutted and jabbed his keyboard, chopping out a snappy retort. Seconds later Dick cackled.

“Master Dick,” Alfred chastened, “You will find the conversation far more engaging if you speak to your brother in person.”

“It’s a four-way text, Alfred,” Dick responded, strolling from the kitchen with a devious smirk and a handful of peppermint melts. “Jay and Tim are the ones missing the fun.”

“It is a two-way conversation, as Drake is refusing to communicate and Todd is still referring to children’s games,” Damian corrected. 

“Rainbow Road could bring Batman to his knees,” Dick insisted, scrolling through the conversation. “Wait, he's still talking about it?”

“When he chooses to respond,” Damian confirmed. “He is exceedingly lax in his ripostes tonight. He may as well disconnect his line.”

“Must be the power surges,” Dick said, flopping dramatically onto the couch on Bruce’s other side. “I’m not saving him any cookies.”

“Did Tim tell you if he was skipping patrol?” Bruce cut in, gripping the mug more forcefully than was warranted for lukewarm cider dregs.

“Nah, nobody tells me anything anymore,” Dick grumbled, flitting through texts as though hoping he’d missed a comment from his little brother.

“Drake is not stupid enough to be caught in this mess,” Damian reassured him snappishly. He tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Although I have overestimated his perspicacity before.”

“Use your basic dictionary, Dami,” Dick said languidly. “And don’t insult your brother.”

“I’m calling him,” Bruce decided, the phone already pressed to his ear.

“Perhaps he is finally succumbing to fatigue and withdrawal,” Damian said tartly.

“Aw, see you do care!” Dick cooed.

“I merely insinuated that his habits are detrimental to patrol and one day he will imperil — “

“Voicemail,” Bruce said gruffly, hanging up and sending a rapid text.

“As I said, he has likely collapsed from an overexposure to caffeinated —“

“Not the time, Dami,” Dick said quietly, picking up on Bruce's concern. His thumbs blurred a sequence, no doubt mimicking the check-in. 

Bruce's sigh of relief was an understatement when a brief _“sorry fine here”_ flashed under the line-up of ‘ _Call me now's.’_

“He’s fine,” Bruce said, tucking the phone away with a small measure of reassurance. He would feel better if all four kids were here, safe and dry and secure, but he would accept the small blessings.

“Of course he’s fine,” Dick grumbled, folding his arms in a huff. “He could break his leg and he’d be _f_ _ine._ ”

“Give him space,” Bruce intoned. It worked with Jason. Tim just needed a little more time.

“Todd is adamant that Alfred’s cookies remain unmolested,” Damian updated blandly, rolling his eyes.

“That conversation is like, fifteen minutes old,” Dick snorted. “Seriously, Bruce, buy him a new phone. At this rate he’ll get a Christmas invitation by New Year’s.”

“It’s the service,” Bruce guessed, gratefully handing off his now cold cider and accepting the refill from Alfred. “The storm probably took out a few towers.”

“Damian’s line works fine,” Dick argued.

“You are sitting right next to me, Grayson.”

“Actually, Bruce is separating us but we can fix that.”

“Keep your Cercopithecidaen hands away from me!”

It took a brief Google search to translate the monkey reference and Bruce groaned. “I said no circus jokes, Damian.”

“It makes no difference if it refers to a zoo or a flashing tent,” Damian hissed, bundling defensively into Bruce’s side.

“I don’t get it,” Dick whined. “At least tell me if it’s funny.”

“It’s not even a proper word,” Bruce reassured him.

“Todd is still ranting about food,” Damian grumbled, diverting his brother to a safer topic.

“Still?” Dick ranted, quarrel forgotten. “I asked him three times if he was planning to crash here for the night.”

“He won’t drive in this weather,” Bruce stated. Flooding gutters, unseen ditches, headlight glares — Jason would never drive blind for a family get-together. He would bunker down, at least; stay inside with a questionable radiator and three layers of Alfred’s Christmas sweaters. 

Tim, on the other hand....

_‘How fine is fine?’_ Bruce texted idly.

He startled when his phone buzzed before he could hit send. Perturbed, he shushed Dick and swiped to accept. “Barbara?”

Eight words chilled his heart and sent him lunging from the couch, barreling for the clock as Dick and Damian followed, demanding answers. Apprehension plunged into the dreadful certainty that he _knew_ something was wrong, and why didn’t he follow his gut instinct before everything fell apart?

“Bruce, what’s going on?” Dick hollered, catching his arm as he clattered down the staircase. Damian was already assembling the Robin costume. Good; he’d need them all on hand tonight.

Grimly Bruce repeated Oracle’s message: “Hood called for backup. Red Robin is down.”

* * *

Bruce expected fear toxin. Explosives. Unstable structures. Jason didn’t call for backup, even if he was cornered and bleeding out. He wouldn’t bring attention to himself... unless one of the Robins was involved.

Time had swept old grievances aside, grudgingly as they were released, and Jason was more likely to call in a passive remark from Damian that implied the kid wasn’t getting enough bonding time with his dad. He’d taken up Dick’s mantle in shadowing his brothers, even if the Hood method implied cynical badgering and fond cuffs to the head. If Red Robin was down, Hood would already be involved. On a freezing night with electric cables sizzling from downed poles and residual oil slicking the streets. Even the night-vision in his helmet would be hampered. The call for help only confirmed that he knew he couldn’t win this fight alone. 

There was a scant handful of villains whom the Hood never tangled with single-handed. Any one of them could blow the entire block without qualms.

Bruce took the next lunge without pause, moss scraping perilously under his boot. Every minute lost was a step closer to another gravestone. Every block stretched beyond him with blind foreboding; uncharted tunnels in Gotham’s belly, cradling a crooked smile and a crowbar.

_Not this time._

He heard the scuffle before he found it. Gunshots and ravings and a metallic holler. _Jason._ Bruce dropped carelessly, releasing the brunt of the collision in a roll, and drew a batarang.

He hesitated.

_How?_

There were _two_ of them. Crimson mask and red helmet, buckling in the mud, clad with nearly identical jackets and rabid snarls. The bulkier one had the upper hand, but the smaller fought like a scrapping coyote, switchblade flashing inches from his eyepiece, still managing to grip the other’s white hair and yank back, trying to turn the knife on his opponent.

“Hood!” Bruce shouted. 

Neither wrestler acknowledged him; either they were consumed with rancor or deaf from the storm. The knife plunged down again, scraping chrome, and a snatching threat whispered above the storm. 

“You could ruin the Court; the League!” the helmetless one swore. “You would exchange it for children in capes?”

The helmet dropped back, lilting towards Bruce, and rigid shoulders slumped just enough. Relief. Expectation of rescue. _Jason!_

The black batarang sunk deep into the impostor’s shoulder and Batman charged, flinging the assailant from his son. Green eyes flashed with murder in an unrecognizable, twisted face. A clone; a doppelgänger; a mimicry of the Red Hood — Bruce didn’t have time to even guess. The assailant snarled and ducked away from him, fumbling for something in his belt. Green flashed from a device, swarming the man, blinding Bruce even through the night goggles — and he was gone.

No trace. Not a flicker of ash or smoke.

Who even had access to that technology?

“B!” Jason groaned behind him, gingerly rolling upright and rubbing his neck. “Gotta check…” the rasp ended in a choked cough before he flung off the helmet, gasping against the wind. “Robin!”

Bruce whirled, scanning the alley. There was a staff on the ground. A shattered phone. Another device that looked like Jason’s model. A scrunched up hood.

“Tim!” Already crouched over the crumpled Robin, Dick gently drew him up, checking for a pulse. “Come on, look at me. It’s gonna be....” He drew his hand back suddenly, frantic eyes latching onto Bruce. The blue fingers of the glove were soiled black. “We gotta get him to Leslie _now_.”

“Another Hood,” Jason said, grimacing as his throat whistled in turn. “Don’t know where….” Talking was clearly too much. He hunched over, catching his breath, and slapped Bruce’s hand away. “Don’t… Tim first….”

“I’ll take him,” Bruce decided, nudging Dick aside and nodding at Jason. “Take him home.”

The manor had adequate equipment for a scuffle. Doctor Leslie would already have her hands full.

“Robin, go with B,” Dick ordered, stooping to loop Jason’s arm around his neck. “Just in case that thing comes back.”

“I… did not see it,” Damian admitted, shame-faced. “I fell behind.”

Jason spluttered and cleared his throat, batting Dick’s hand away when he tried to shush him. “If ya see _me_ … shoot ‘em,” he croaked. 

“You’re up for Leslie’s next if we don’t get the swelling down in your throat,” Dick warned. He called over his shoulder, “We’ll catch up with you, Bruce.”

There would be time. Too much of it. Hours of waiting, praying, wondering, snatching for the first teaser of favorable news. Fury welled in Bruce’s chest as he briefly patted down Tim’s neck and spine. X-rays would reveal the full extent of the damage. Two ribs jutted under his hand, the right arm was crooked, and the same knee angled wrong. The bruises across the jaw were purpleing already, deep lines that matched the indents across the boy’s arms and back. He’d been beaten with his own staff. Cornered and stomped down, helpless before a monster.

Just like Jason.

A breathless whimper turned into a keen, plaintive and terrified. Gently Bruce hushed the boy, tucking his arms under the fragile spine, closing his ears to the tremulous yelps as he lifted. Tim shuddered, lisping soundless pleas, face turned into Bruce’s shoulder.

“It’s all right, chum,” Bruce whispered. “You’re safe. It’s over.”

Lies proclaimed to soothe a son’s wounded heart. Empty condolences to help a young man sleep. Until the bastard claiming Jason’s face was uncovered and vanquished, Bruce would never consider his children safe again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Recovery is a long, confusing process (and Tim really needs a hug)


	3. Show Me Family

Flashing white pain, gripping his chest and then his head, creeping into every limb like a poker jamming into his bones.

“Concussion…. breathing apparatus…. Sedation may be necessary….” 

Words drifting in a void of blurring color and sound. He opened his eyes once and cotton folds swam around him. A fuzzy apparition in a suit coat reached out and he flinched, choking on bile, retching and coughing until his head felt like it would split in two and he could only lie trembling in the arms bracing him over a basin.

Coolness flooded his arm and he fled into the dark.

* * *

Sometimes it was the Red Hood chasing him. 

Sometimes it was Jason. 

Usually he was alone — running blindly down an alley until he skidded to a stop, surrounded on three sides by walls he couldn’t climb; no bo staff, no grappling gun.

Sometimes Batman was there. Robin. Nightwing. They found other distractions. Watched impassively. Scolded him for not getting along.

Once it was Alfred who walked away.

He woke himself sobbing, the right side of his face throbbing in tune with his pulse, and he didn’t know whether to cling to the hand rubbing his fingers, or thrust it away.

_I’m sorry please don’t go just leave me alone don’t please he’s coming don’t leave me_ …..

Strong fingers stroked down his palm, tracing every finger, gentle whispers urging him to lie quiet.

So he did.

No one would believe him, anyways.

* * *

Four broken ribs, linear fracture in the tibia, torn ligaments down the right leg, a hobbled foot, fractured cheekbone, broken wrist, dislocated shoulder, battered spine, and hairline skull fracture. His boy was nearly beaten to death. Battered beyond recognition. If the staff had held any more weight, he wouldn’t be walking for months. 

All it would have taken was an explosion to replay a tragedy. Bruce could no longer tell himself that Hood wasn’t capable of replicating the cruelty of his own death. (It wasn’t _Jason_. There were hundreds of multiverses, each with their own heroes and villains who were formed by the circumstances around them. _Jason_ hadn’t done this.)

If he hadn’t watched the two men grappling in an alley, Bruce might not have believed it. 

“Why didn’t you call me?” he whispered, brushing his thumb across Tim’s forehead. Mottled bruising encompassed his face from cheek to chin, swelling both eyes. There was barely an inch of skin where Bruce didn’t fear causing more discomfort. It might be a few days before Tim woke fully, the doctors warned him. Too much trauma. His body needed to be quiet while his mind settled. Sedation would speed the process along. 

Bruce could only think about carrying the kid to Leslie’s, forcing battered limbs into civilian clothes when she declared she needed a professional team, gripping his hand in the ambulance as Tim sobbed, bewildered by the onset of lights and sound and too many hands holding him down.

Someone had tortured his son, damaged his mind, reenacted a tragedy that Bruce would give _anything_ to amend, and when Tim had cried out for help, he called _Jason_.

Where had he gone wrong?

* * *

On day three, Tim started responding to voices. He drifted, bleary eyes trying to comprehend for minutes at a time before he zonked out again. Dick kept up a steady litany of chatter. How his buddies thought he was skiving off work, how many games the Knights had lost in the last season (all of them), what Babs thought about his newest costume inspiration (apparently they didn’t need another red bird), and a running commentary on silly animal video compilations. Tim didn’t respond, but he sighed once or twice, and he watched Dick in every waking moment as though absorbing the sound.

There was probably an indication of self-isolation or lack of attention that Dick should make note of. But Tim wasn’t a kid. He was always self-sufficient, adulting from the prime age of nine when he first set out with a camera. He didn’t need constant reassurance like Damian; he knew where he belonged.

He quieted down whenever Dick started talking, though, so he didn’t stop.

* * *

Father read whenever Drake was restless. Damian was not aware that Drake cared particularly for novels (or understood the complexity of the story in his present state), but he had observed Todd calming under similar circumstances. Perhaps comprehension of a language was not required to appreciate the time appropriated for a reading session. He would test that theory and read to Drake in Arabic the next time he visited. It was far more soothing to the ears than the jabbering syllables of English poets. 

Pennyworth visited the hospital wing less often (the manor would cease to function without him), but when he continued where the last reader left off, curbing the harshest vowels into something almost melodic, Damian found himself nodding off on occasion. It was hardly a surprise that Drake came to full awareness for the first time when the servant was in the room.

He looked around owlishly, as though surprised to find himself in a hospital bed. The eyes that settled on Damian were wrought and undisguised, like an injured dog cornered by jackals. When Pennyworth squeezed his hand he burst into tears. 

Damian walked out of the room. Grayson would have known what to do. Even Todd would have responded in an effective manner. 

He did not know how to fix this.

* * *

The longer Timothy’s spaces of cognizance lasted, the more the doctors fretted. He wasn’t eating enough. His responses were monosyllabic and passive. They suggested antidepressants and steroids. 

Bruce refused. His son had just survived a traumatic event, and he was barely awake three hours in a day. His moods swung from melancholic to apathetic at the mere fluctuation of a tone. He didn’t need something else meddling with his body’s chemistry. 

“A..lone?” was always Tim’s first question upon awakening, after his initial, squinting sweep of the room.

“Just me, kid,” was sometimes the answer, or “Dick is here, too,” or “Dami’s by the window,” or “I just stepped out for a moment. You’re okay.”

The panics attacks were normal, Bruce was told. Pressure on the brain took time to settle down. Tim lost time, relived the assault, struggled to recognize his surroundings. After the third instance of dismantled traction devices and IV’s, they called in backup. Barbara, Cass, Stephanie, and Tim’s old team took turns spelling out the Wayne family, ensuring that he was never left alone for long.

The system worked out fine, until Jason took his turn for the night.

He called Bruce twenty minutes later, swearing and muttering over the line as a nurse ordered him to leave the room. 

“He won’t calm down, B. He won’t stop screaming.”

Frantic shrieks coupled with a nurse’s shouts and Jason’s husked, rapid breathing. Bruce was dressed and on his way in ten minutes. It was an isolated instance, he reassured his second son. Tim woke from a nightmare and confused Jason for the other Hood. He would be fine once he was a little more awake.

He was wrong.

* * *

It was a good day. Tim was alert and picking at the useless remote, looking miffed that his television privileges were cut off until his brain resumed normal functions. Dick was reading off one of his fellow officer’s snippy texts (“ _When are you coming back you lazy knob_ ” was always funnier with dramatization and some added script) when Jason popped his head in, a queasy smile plastered in place.

“Kiddo awake enough for a visitor?”

Like a hair trigger Tim jolted, blue eyes snapping to the door. A fit of full-bodied trembling spiked the monitors and he yanked his free arm around, dismantling the IV as he grabbed for Dick’s hand. White fingers tangled in the young man's sleeve, forcing him to scoot closer. He wasn’t breathing right — rapid, shallow breaths like a bird flapping under the cat’s claws. Jason stepped inside and the kid jerked his head to the side, squeezing his eyes shut as the monitor started to shriek.

“Whoah, Timmy! What’s going on,” Dick hushed, casting Jason a baffled look. “It’s just Jason.”

_“No… don’t….”_ Tim whispered.

“Timbo?” Jason said softly, using the tone he reserved for scared kids in the drug dens, or three-legged alley strays. “It’s me. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.”

Tim sobbed in the next breath, trying to hold it in and find his calm. He whined sharply, sputtering under a new wave of panic. 

“Tim, it’s okay,” Dick insisted, silent questions firing at his brother. _What did you do_ **_this_ ** _time?_ Jason shook his head, expression flitting from awkward to haunted in an instant. “It’s only Jay. Tell me what’s wrong.” 

“I … I can’t… don’t let…” Gasping in his next breath, Tim said in a rush, “I don’t want him here. Please.”

Jason wasn’t one to beg for his place. Before Dick could catch his eye he was gone.

He didn't come back.

* * *

Jason wouldn’t visit. Not even Bruce’s accusations of familial responsibility, or Alfred’s gentle prodding would move him. Something was unhealthily wrong, Dick realized. Tim was the rational one in the family. He put himself on patrol before Batman ever accepted him as Robin, lost both his parents to murder, pulled himself back from the edge in time to save their killer, and put his differences with Jason and Damian behind him after every quarrel. He was moody, oversensitive, and snappish on occasion, but he thought things through and he didn’t stigmatize his teammates.

So how was it that the moment Jason showed up, the teen fell apart? Dick could understand the logic behind his brother’s sudden absence, but now Jason wasn’t even trying. Not one call or text asking how Tim was doing. It seemed like every time the family was almost together — almost normal — something like _this_ happened and it took months to coax Jason back into the manor. 

‘ _What happened?_ ’ Dick pleaded. He knew Jason was getting his texts. He’d sent over a hundred in the last twelve hours, without a single loading circle of doom. _‘Jaybird, talk to me.’_

Silence.

He finally tracked down Jason in the Cave. There was a cold plate of macaroni and cheese at the computer, set out by Alfred who-knew-when, an empty coffee mug, tabs pulled up on every screen… and two red helmets glaring from the desk. 

“Jay?” Dick posed softly, eyeing the congealing pasta with a worried sniff. “What are you doing?”

Agitated typing paused for a moment before resuming, charts and graphs zipping through numbers. No, _coordinates_. 

“Jason,” Dick snapped.

“What do you want, _Dick?_ ” Jason growled, employing more venom than was due for a nickname. 

“When did you last sleep?” Dick accused, sniffing the empty mug and _hoping_ it was drugged. His brother’s eyes were shadowed, maniacal almost, and he sported at least three days worth of scruff. (He _smelled_ like he hadn’t showered in that long.)

“You’re not my warden, Circus Freak,” Jason retorted. “Go fret over Damian; I heard him threaten to skip school tomorrow.”

“Jason, how long have you been here?” Dick asked, stabbing out to turn off the monitor.

A pistol barrel loomed in his face.

“.... Jason…” Dick said warily, raising his hands.

“Back. _Off_ ,” Jason spat. 

“Just tell me what this is,” Dick pleaded, softer. Either his brother was on the edge of Pit Madness or he was about to have a nervous breakdown. He wasn’t sure what he would do if it was the latter.

“Back away from the computer,” Jason warned him, the gun wavering as his eyes blanked out for a second.

“When did you last sleep?” Dick reasoned, stepping away carefully.

“Why the twenty questions?” Jason parried, tossing the gun onto the desk and rubbing his eyes. “Go cuddle Tim for a while. I think he’s scared to be alone.”

“Bruce is with him.” Since when did Jason voice his concerns so… avidly? Dick turned his attention back to the charts. “So what is all this?”

“Timelines,” Jason spat, reaching agitatedly for the mug and grimacing when he realized it was empty. “Tracking my doppelgänger.” 

“Your lookalike?” Dick realized.

Jason rolled his eyes. “That’s usually the translation of the word. Found his helmet a few blocks from Vince Avenue. The tech is definitely a few years ahead, but between that and the phone tracker I think I can find a universal match.”

“You can’t just track people across the multiverse,” Dick said dumbly. Because... that would be too easy, wouldn’t it? Not only for them, but for everyone who wanted them dead.

“You can hang out with Bruce if you’re gonna be a pessimist,” Jason growled. “And tell Al we’re out of coffee.“

“You don’t need more coffee, Jay.”

“You don’t need a bullet in your skull, _Dick_.”

Humphing, Dick snatched up the cold lunch plate and the empty mug. He’d be nice and play waiter — this once.

They had plenty of decaf.

* * *

The kid was scared of him. Wide-eyed, cold-sweat terrified of Jason Todd. That was ... expected. Really, he couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t like he didn’t knock the Replacement around for _existing_ back then, and the invading Hood probably dragged up old memories.

Fiddling with the imposter’s visor, Jason detached the eyepieces carefully, looking for the recording piece. He always carried one after sealing the truce — just in case the Bat accused him of bonking one of his baby birds. Video evidence was invaluable in a family of martial artists who jumped to bad conclusions.

The doppelgänger’s helmet didn’t have a visible camera. Either he didn’t have a higher figure to hold him accountable, or the tech was that good. Jason bitterly wished for the Replacement, or one of his dorky friends. Of course it would be a technological impediment standing between him and a schizophrenic trauma victim.

_Me in the future, sans a conscience and a decent supply of hair dye,_ Jason considered, tapping the inside of the helmet. What would he prioritize on a revenge spree?

Attention, that was obvious. Someone had to hang around to mourn their poor life choices. But this Hood seemed to be content with simply battering a kid to death — he didn’t even taunt Batman for showing up late.

How much sadism was buried in the darkness; caged until Jason decided he was done behaving himself? 

_He just wanted to beat up a Robin,_ Jason acknowledged, flinging the helmet across the room. He buried his head in his arms, the ongoing calculations a pestering whine in the background. Teleportation device, old smartphone, tech-free helmet. _What am I missing....?_

His eyes shut.

* * *

Bruce wanted the truth. Why else would he be here at all odd hours, hovering, waiting, anger lacing every quiet sigh that he thought Tim couldn’t hear above the monitors?

“I don’t... remember right,” Tim volunteered, searching for words that should be so _easy_ to rattle out. He hated concussions.

Bruce whirled away from the window, attention honed on him, and Tim swallowed hard, scrambling for the basics of communication. “I — I didn’t s-see his face — it was blurry? He got my staff, I wasn’t … w-watching for him....”

“Tim.” A broad, warm hand swept back his hair and another clasped the cold fingers of his left hand. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it right now.”

He must have said something about Jason after all. He _must_ have. Why else were they avoiding the subject, clamming him up the moment he tried to give his report? (Tim didn’t react well when Hood entered the room, and Dick wasn’t an idiot.) 

Which meant they _knew_ , and they’d bundled it all up and blindsided the truth, because no one wanted Jason to run off just because Tim had antagonized him.

_I didn’t do anything wrong,_ Tim thought, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his head into the pillow. Bruce shushed him softly, stroking gentler, and he buried his face before he shamed himself further. _He’ll kill me next time. He’ll kill me for sure, and ... and I don’t_ **_want_ ** _to go but...._

This wouldn’t be the last assault. He knew that now. That tentative truce was only the hunter biding his time. Hood would be back the moment Tim let down his guard.

Maybe it was time to leave the Robin name behind for good.

Trembling as Bruce whispered consolations, Tim clenched his fingers in the pillow before he could grab for the comforting hand. He didn’t want to leave this behind, but if Bruce were to choose between him or Jason....

He just wanted to live.

* * *

“It’s quite past your bedtime, Master Damian.”

That was an absurd statement, considering that Damian often patrolled into the wee hours unless he was forced to go home early. He took the warm milk from Pennyworth anyways, inhaling the comforting, earthy spice of cardamon, nutmeg and turmeric, with just a hint of sugar. It was a comforting alternative to the too-sweet chocolate Grayson guzzled. It tasted like home.

“Drake is not responding well,” Damian voiced, reviewing Father’s texts. There was little implied: _‘staying later_ ’ and ‘ _mind Alfred,_ ’ but it had been six days since the attack. There were nurses in plenty to do the job, and Drake should be cognizant enough to spend the night alone.

“A breach in trust does not seal like a normal wound,” Pennyworth told him. Damian averted his eyes, refusing to acknowledge the time he pushed Drake off the dinosaur. An established rivalry was not the same as betraying one’s confidence. 

“His skull was fractured,” Damian ventured. “Compromised emotions are a symptom of cranial trauma.”

“Master Timothy is recovering to the doctors’ satisfaction,” Pennyworth reassured him. “If no further complications present themselves, we will soon see him home.”

Home meaning the manor, since Drake’s injuries had breached the contract of his emancipation and the government did not consider him fit to live alone any longer. He would return to his old room, whining every day about petty grievances, and Damian would have to get along with him as long as the crutches were necessary. (After that, he could hardly be faulted for a dagger flashing at his brother’s hideous face. Drake would have poorer reflexes if Damian did not keep him on his toes.)

“When will he return, Pennyworth?” Damian prodded, shifting both hands to wrap around soothing, warm ceramic. 

“When he is ready, Master Damian,” Pennyworth said vaguely. “It is rather late, I see, and your father will expect to see you rested in the morning.”

Heeding the precaution ( _order, threat_ ), Damian finished the milk and handed the mug back. He would not give Father further reason for concern tonight. He dressed himself quickly and went to bed, waiting as the minutes ticked by, as if Father would appear in the doorway and check in on him one more time.

He fell asleep curled around Alfred the cat, feeling more alone than his first night in a strange house, with strangers occupying his father’s attention and customs laid in stone that he did not understand.

Father did not return the next morning.

* * *

The Red Hood wasn’t normally welcome in the Tower, but the demon brat made a great pathfinder. It only took a few jabs at Timmy’s current mental state to convince Damian that they needed answers on the Hood case _now._ Jason strolled behind a sulking Robin, nodding smugly at the yellow menace zipping around. “Speedy,” he greeted.

“Why is _he_ here?” the newest Kid Flash accused, darting close as though he might _accidentally_ trip up a certain red menace. 

“Got a job for you punks,” Jason said, twirling the impostor’s helmet. “I need this thing picked apart. Figured your pinkette might recognize the tech.”

“He is here on obligation,” Damian snapped at his teammates. “His counterpart from another universe was the one who injured Red Robin.”

“That was you?” Beast Boy sputtered. “Again?”

“It wasn’t my fault this time!” Jason griped. “That’s why I brought this thing. We’ve got a real villain to track down.”

“Funny, I thought one was already standing in the room....” Raven muttered.

This was going to be a long day.

* * *

“Tim.”

A long suffering sigh followed. Spreading the gelatin more evenly to make it look eaten, Tim mumbled, “Hate jello.” He couldn’t have solids for another two weeks — he was lucky his jaw wasn’t shattered. Recovery from battle wounds was always worse than the infliction.

They still could’ve given him any other color but red.

“You’re supposed to eat,” Kon stated.

“Make me.”

He bit his tongue, half expecting Kon to growl at him. _‘You never shut up, do you?’_ But that was the Hood speaking. Kon would never hurt him, or scrub the cameras if an assailant snuck into his apartment. Simple reasons why he felt like picking at dessert instead of turning away the lunch tray completely. Why he didn’t hesitate to blurt out, “Wanna stay. With y'guys. For a while.”

Kon went stiff, reading behind way too many lines, and Tim jammed a spoonful of jello into his mouth before he started blabbing everything. (Which was a stupid move because… _ow._ ) He dropped the spoon in anguish, cradling his jaw. 

“You’re not supposed to rush meals,” Kon chastened, already scrambling out of his chair.

‘S’fine,” Time said quickly. It wasn't. Nothing was okay. It was all going to be voiced sooner or later, probably in an embarrassing display, but not here. Not when Bruce might overhear.

“Just a few days… with everyone. Miss you,” he said lamely, satisfied when his voice barely quivered.

Scorching blue eyes were unrelenting, but Kon let it go. For now. “Okay.”

That was all he needed to hear. Tension fleeing, Tim sighed and pushed the tray table back, laying back gingerly to close his eyes. Kon would watch the entrances while he slept. He could finally let down his guard without the nurses pushing sedation.

He didn’t want things to end this way (it _hurt_ , knowing the choice would be forced on him soon), but... at least he had a back door now.

* * *

The imposter’s phone tracker was no help — all coordinates shimmied back to the line in Jason’s pocket — but once the password was hacked he learned more than he wanted to know. (Raven wouldn’t even tell him what his psychotic self would use for a password, but she looked like she might crisp his insides afterwards.)

There were photographs. Trophy kills. Yellow capes and blacks, dainty bat hoods, a lineup of boots on a filthy cave floor. Nightwing’s ensemble. Bodies arranged around bloodied messages. Most of them were Robins. Not all of them kids that Jason recognized.

“You should go,” Starfire said softly, pushing the dissected helmet into Jason’s free hand. He couldn’t let go of the phone, couldn’t tear his eyes away.... 

“Hood.” She jerked his attention to her, holding up a small disk. He took it numbly. “You shouldn’t be here,” she repeated.

No. No, he shouldn’t. Not with murder in his name and horror quenching bright faces. He didn’t belong in a place like this.

“See you at the cave, Brat,” Jason said thickly, tucking the impostor’s helmet under his arm. His head felt heavy under red chrome, the lenses distorted and uncharacteristically fogged. 

How many kids died because he hadn’t stopped at the first Replacement? How long before the next one screamed in death’s throes?

He had video footage of the fight, and the last number dialed. The kid had called Hood — tried to call _him_. What cruel cadence was woven into that final conversation, before the bastard snapped his last photo and fled the universe?

Jason didn’t want to know.

* * *

Two brothers weren’t eating enough to keep a gerbil alive, and the third one was playing with his food. Dick groaned, rubbing his temples, and ordered, “Dami, don’t feed Titus at the table.”

Blue eyes looked properly cornered before Damian huffed. “As if I would suffer an animal to eat this swill.”

Dick didn’t mean it. It just... snapped. Slamming a fist on the table, he bolted up and grabbed both his own plate and the one Alfred had set out when Jason promised to come up to dinner _twenty minutes_ ago.

“Grayson....” Damian piped up anxiously.

“I’m going to sit with another adult for a while,” Dick snapped. “Tell Alfred I’m bringing Jason’s dinner to him.”

He didn’t need to scrap about it — Damian didn’t understand, he didn’t have to pull the child card — but his chest burned and his throat ached and he wanted nothing more than to grab his escrima sticks and punch through a mob. (Fighting crime on a nightly basis tended to develop bad coping methods.)

Jason didn’t look up when Dick stalked downstairs, mumbling a grudging, “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Smacking down both plates, Dick plonked into the second chair and spun around, glaring at the dismantled red helmet. 

Green eyes looked equal parts mystified, burnt out, and disgruntled. “You need to spar with someone?” 

“I might kill you right now,” Dick snapped. No, that was undeserved. Jason was only trying to help.

Rather than snarl back, Jason shrugged and turned back to the screens. “Let me know when you’re ready to verbalize like a normal person, then.”

It wasn’t like him to act this... subdued. Dick gave his brother a second glance-over. He'd definitely gone hollow around the eyes. Shadows melted into scruff, and he looked like he ate and slept in that same jacket. Had he kicked his boots off once since the attack?

“Jason, you really need to sleep,” Dick urged. He was pretty sure that if he put his hand out, he’d feel the heat of a furnace.

Rubbing his face, Jason gave a dark chuckle that melted into a keen. “Can’t shut my eyes,” he admitted. “Not without seeing....”

Mutely Dick held out his hand, and Jason surrendered the impostor’s phone. The photo album was open, dark sequences mingled with flash photos, all focusing on....

“They’re all kids,” Dick whispered in horror.

“And Bats,” Jason added morbidly. “Some of them are Bats.” He dropped his head into his arms and moaned. “I’m a bloody serial killer, Dick.”

“Not... you’re not....” It wasn’t _Jason_ killing kids. It wasn’t.

But it was. Another life, a path missed, a tortured soul lashing out at everything around him. It _could_ have been Jason.

In another universe, this was reality.

“They can’t link it,” Jason mumbled, jabbing blindly at the screen where a futile _‘no match_ ’ hovered. “He keeps jumping before it can lock onto him. He could come back any time and we wouldn’t know where from.”

“Jay... this is enough,” Dick urged, clutching the leather-clad shoulder.

“Tim’s not safe,” Jason babbled, raising his head to stare fiercely at the helmet. “He wasn’t finished. He’ll come back and get Tim, and then Dami, and he won’t stop there, maybe it'll be Steph next, all because he wouldn’t let go.....”

_Because_ **_I_ ** _wouldn’t let go._

The self-directed jab broke down into a sob. When Dick pulled him down Jason clung to him, breathless cries yanked from his throat, horror and guilt and exhaustion tearing down every sharp edge. 

“It’s not going to be me!” Jason pleaded, fingers digging into Dick’s arm to make him understand. “I won’t do it. I won’t let it get that far, I swear!”

“You won’t, Jay,” Dick whispered, rubbing shoulders that were suddenly too thin and stretched. 

“Promise me!” Jason yelled. “Promise me that if I ever — if I go too far — you’ll stop me. I don’t care what Bruce wants. Don’t put me in Arkham. If I ever get that far, you put a bullet in my brain.”

Reeling, Dick frantically shook his head. “What — _no_ , it won’t — we don’t even have to talk about this, you would never —“

“I already did!” Jason spat. “Some other universe, some messed-up reality; this isn’t just a fluke coincidence! Every day I tell myself I’m not gonna be what the Joker created, but every day I could warp into something just like him. It only takes one shove, Dick. Promise me you’ll never let it get that far. Don’t let me murder you!”

“You won’t, and I won’t let you,” Dick swore as he gripped Jason’s hands, grimacing at the bruising strength. “You won’t kill anyone, Jay. You’re already a better person than him.”

“Promise me,” Jason rasped, green-lanced eyes glinting in the screen light.

Jaw clenched, Dick nodded sharply and delivered one more lie. “I promise.”

* * *

“One more week.” Leslie put her foot down and that was that.

Tim was finally managing full sentences. He could track a neurological test with minimal hesitation. His leg was plastered and there was nothing that therapy and time’s natural healing couldn’t set to rights. By all sound logic he should have gone home yesterday.

“Once Tim is actively participating with the therapists and eating regularly, I’ll consider discharging him,” Leslie said sternly. “If I send him home now he’ll be back in two days. He’s underweight, apathetic and indicating signs of depression. You don’t have the resources to back him at the manor. _Trust me_ , I know how things work over there.”

Bats and emotional hardships didn’t mix well, she implied. Dick stepped between them before Bruce could say exactly what he thought about physicians who drove for extended stays and long-term medications. 

“That’s fine, Leslie,” Dick said reasonably. “It’s just a few more days. We know he’s in good hands.”

He dragged Bruce out for something stronger than hospital coffee and texted Bart to take his place. 

“Tim still needs full-time attention,” he tried to explain while Bruce fidgeted at the cafe table. “Leslie knows what she’s doing.”

He just wished he knew what was going on in his little brother' head.

* * *

It was an odd day when sulking seemed to be an improvement. Tim was clearly tired of the hospital food, the wires, the lack of privacy, and the doctors prodding him from every side. He banished Dick from the room, managed to swallow two-thirds of everything set before him, made an exaggerated effort to prove he could handle the crutches without a therapist at his elbow, and grumbled incessantly until he mixed his words up and started cussing instead. 

A sulky Tim was at least a fighting Tim, and he was showing more vivacity than Bruce had seen in two weeks. It was a monumental development. 

Then Jason popped in.

“Baby bird up?” he posed, stepping inside as if he’d been present and involved during the entire recovery process. There was a box under his arm and a flicker of unease in green eyes — the only indicator that kept Bruce from dragging him out for a behavioral explanation.

Tim went white. 

“Bruce, I don’t want — I don’t want him — here, please he can’t — s-stay if I say no….” Days of progress lost in an instant. Tim fumbled at Bruce’s sleeve, stammering, losing his words to mind-blocking panic. 

“It’s okay, Timmy,” Jason said quietly, telegraphing each movement as he slowly set the box on the floor. “I know what’s scaring you. He’s not gonna get to you again.”

“Bruce please, make him go….” Tim whispered. “Please, I’m s-sorry I don’t — I don’t want — don’t let him…”

“Jason,” Bruce said, accompanying the order with an apologetic sigh.

“Wait a second, B,” Jason hedged, tossing open the box flaps. “I need to show him something first.”

Tim whined sharply and turned his face into Bruce’s arm. “Don’t — no — _please_....” 

“ _Jason_ ,” Bruce insisted.

“It’s — here. Look,” Jason said, yanking two helmets from the box. “It wasn’t me. It wasn’t. I didn’t do it.”

“Jason, that’s enough,” Bruce said, his arms full of a teenager who was sobbing apologies and pleas without drawing breath. “He doesn’t need this right now.”

“He needs to know, B!” Jason declared. “He needs to believe that _I’m_ not going to hurt him. It _wasn’t me,_ Tim!”

Jolting at the sharp tone, Tim yanked away, covering his ears. “Please I’ll go just make him — Kon, please, _Kon!”_

“That’s enough, Jason!” Bruce snapped, stunning the young man out of his babbling explanation. Unshaved and wild-eyed, Jason looked maniacal. “Go home and rest. You’ve done enough.”

Flabbergasted, Jason looked frantically from Tim to Bruce, and whirled with a snarl when the window slammed open and Superboy ambushed the small wing. “He’s not going to get better the longer he thinks I’m out to get him!”

“You’re not disproving _anything_ right now,” Bruce said darkly. 

Kon stalked forward, hands drawn into white-knuckled fists, and Tim started breathing again. 

“Fine, I’m going!” Jason exclaimed, dropping the helmets into the box and kicking it towards Kon. “While you’re soothing his feathers, tell him there’s two Reds tramping across the universe, and someone went out of his way to make sure he survived until Christmas.”

“Get out of here!” Kon warned him.

“I’m leaving!” Jason railed. “I know when I’m unwanted.”

“Jason…” Bruce shut his eyes. Once again he lacked the verbology to negotiate between his quarreling sons. Why couldn’t he learn from Dick’s silver tongue, or Alfred’s perpetual calm?

“No, I didn’t mean — he shouldn’t — you don’t — I won’t — please don’t….” Tremors turned to hyperventilation as Tim huddled into himself, hugging his broken arm. “He — shouldn’t — I’ll go — I won’t — won’t mess it — please don’t be — I won’t get in the …”

“Timmy?” Jason said, so hushed and gentle that Kon looked between him and Bruce with befuddled animosity. Ignoring the clone, Jason stepped closer, hands limp and harmless, footsteps soft. “Timmy, you gotta listen to me. Please.”

Tim choked, shivering.

“Timbo. Baby bird. It wasn’t me,” Jason whispered. In a sudden frenzy he grabbed both the dismantled helmet and the whole, laying them on the bed. “Please look.”

Blue eyes cracked open like it was a threat. Tim glanced between the empty-eyed helms, confusion cycling with trepidation. “W...what?”

“Multiverse travel,” Jason said in the same quieting tone, tapping the imposter’s helmet. “Ask Bruce. I came right for you, baby bird. Stabbed the dirty bastard in the leg. He won't come near you again.”

“There was another Red Hood,” Bruce explained, finally understanding the connotations. “Jason called it in. The other Hood jumped universes before we could take him down.”

“... Two…?” Tim said detachedly.

“ _It wasn’t me_ ,” Jason swore. “I know I messed up, but we're past that, I’ll _paint_ the bloody helmet it it’ll make you believe me….”

“You really haven’t slept since it happened,” Kon realized, scorn layered with reluctant compassion. 

“Why does everyone care about my sleeping habits?” Jason ranted. “He doesn’t sleep for weeks and everyone gives him coffee! Why am I — that’s not even the point! I’m not the Hood — not _that_ Hood. Stop looking at me like I’m going to murder you!”

Tim flinched out of his stupor and the moment of calm was lost for good. Rubbing the teen’s shoulder, Bruce instructed one last time, “Jason, I think it’s time for you to _go_.”

Irrationality vanished under a blank stare. Dropping his hands, Jason nodded mutely and turned on his heel. Tim jerked uneasily, as though he might call for him to stop, and Bruce shushed him with a few strokes through his hair. “Later, Tim. We’ll talk later.”

He didn’t know how Jason pinned it down, but he finally had insight into his son’s trauma. There would be plenty of talk later, and hopefully — this time — Bruce would find his answers.

* * *

“Tim, did you really think that Jason….?

“Did you think that I would let him….?

“Tim, it’s okay. You can talk to me…..”

The video chip found in the doppelganger's helmet told Bruce everything that Tim refused to communicate. How he had failed. Where he stood.

No wonder his own son was afraid to call him.

* * *

“But we wouldn’t have….

“But he _trusts_ us….

“He would have said something if he thought….”

But Tim _wouldn’t_ , Dick realized too late. He was the logical Robin. The sensible one. If he met resistance he ebbed with it until he melded, skirting the problem without disrupting the flow of the tide. Of course he wouldn’t say anything. 

He acted like it didn’t bother him at all. And Dick did _nothing_ , because he couldn’t read the signs.

* * *

“Drake is overdramatic. He is predispositioned to report hazardous influences on his environment.”

And yet the audio Damian replayed in the Batcave declared the opposite view. When faced with impending death, Drake’s ebbing hope was not that his family would save him, but that his would-be-murderer was not the same one as he was led to believe.

They nearly spent Christmas commemorating another headstone. This was unacceptable.

* * *

Jason looked up from the pillow mashed under his head and rolled his eyes. “So the dweeb thinks we hate him. You can stop wallowing about it and plan his Christmas party already. Geez, are you all that thick?”

* * *

And so it was that on Christmas Eve they finally managed to beg, bargain, and manipulate Leslie into discharging their lamed bird. Bruce led him to the sitting room, hovering in case he tripped over his crutches, while the others crammed impatiently on the couch. No loud surprises, Bruce was very clear on that. Tim startled too easily, even now. 

There was a host of awkward fidgeting before Dick burst out, “Merry Christmas, Timmy!”

Because it really was all of that, and more. A glowing tree laboring under heirloom ornaments and a new generation of children’s crafts, wreathes and garlands shimmering with tinsel, a stocking for each family member hanging over the hearth. Gingerbread and thumbprints, tea cookies and sugar cookies, peppermint melts and homemade fudge. Hot cocoa and cider, already dealt out in everyone’s preferred mugs. Underlying the stereotypical greeting and typical festivities was the warmth and anticipation and generosity only found when family gathered together, putting all else behind for the sake of time well spent. It was Christmas, and Tim was home. 

Tim looked around him with wide eyes, gold and green and scarlet gleaming in the sudden sheen before he wiped it away, leaning shyly into Bruce’s side. “Oh.”

Tucking him in as narrow shoulders trembled, Bruce smiled softly and kissed the bowed head. "Welcome home."

* * *

Christmas day passed for him as another mark on the calendar. Another day lost. Another haze of distemper and disillusionment, of low-life's sniveling under his fists and families shying away from his blazing eyes and shock of white hair. This was his empire. Built on the impenetrable steel forged of despair and blood. His incontestable domain.

He hovered outside the ruins of what used to be home, vaguely disquieted when he felt no pain. There was no remorse for the fallen. No memories to dredge up. He wasn’t even sure which were his memories anymore, and which belonged to the heroes of other worlds. 

It probably didn’t matter. One day he would join the bones in this scorched ruins and feel nothing. He just had to finish it once and for all.

Maybe then, he would finally remember the magic of a snowfall, and the carol of endless slumber would lead him home.

* * *

.

.

.

.

_Finis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
> .  
> .
> 
> I believe in keeping my villains alive and at hand for future rampages. So yes, Hood is still prowling around somewhere....


End file.
